


Going Places

by SaunterVaguely



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: American Sign Language, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cruising, Found Family Tropes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex Work, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Rapture Stress Disorder, Scars, Sharing a Bed, father-daughter bonding, has emotions anyway, local man tries to stifle his emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23766052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: Augustus Sinclair has a problem, tries to take care of it on his own, fails spectacularly and somehow stumbles his way into a happy ending.
Relationships: Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta
Comments: 33
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm not dead and this quarantine situation has dragged a fic out of me.

“ _ I do love Siren Alley. The kind of place you go to scratch an itch you're ashamed of -- even in a town with no laws. _ ”

Augustus Sinclair’s always been the “never look back” type, for a number of reasons. So for all that time he spent plotting and planning his escape from Rapture, he never thought he’d miss the place once he was topside. He’d taken for granted just how much easier some things were down there, how much simpler it was to… access certain services. Now they’re back in society, have been for some months, and while he’s as grateful as can be to have gotten out of that hellhole with life and limb intact, he finds himself up a different sort of creek with no paddle to speak of.

It’s something of a two-part problem he’s got.

The first part is that, to put it bluntly, it’s been a while since he’s enjoyed any intimate company, and now that he’s no longer in constant peril, both his body and his imagination have decided to remind him of that fact. The dreams are one thing; when he wakes up half-hard he’s got enough privacy in his room to tend to himself or else roll over and fall back asleep. The daydreams are another matter; more and more he finds his mind wandering with thoughts of big, rough hands, thick arms and broad shoulders. This is all compounded by the second part of the problem- namely, the big, burly source of all his current fantasies, Delta. 

The big lug managed to find a tender spot in the otherwise dead, frozen fortress of Sinclair’s heart during their bloody slog through Rapture’s guts, and now he’s lodged himself in there. To make matters worse, once he got in he melted away that protective layer of ice as if he’d taken an Incinerate plasmid to it, and now Sinclair finds himself firmly planted in the middle of this ragtag, patchwork family like he’s stuck in a production of Little Orphan Annie. Gone is the self-serving, corner-cutting, throat-slitting business acumen he’d prided himself on for so long, left behind like the Subject Omega armor they pried him out of. Instead of a private island, he’s somehow talked himself into setting aside the money they’re making from Rapture’s salvaged technology (a hefty sum, to be sure, but it could’ve been so much more if they’d just sold it to the highest bidder without a worry for its use) to create trust funds for each and every rescued Little Sister. Instead of a mansion, he looked for (and found) a quiet place near a park Eleanor liked, with a big yard and doorways that could be enlarged easily so Delta- “Johnny” when they’re out in public- can pass through them without ducking or banging an elbow. He’d even made an attempt (awkwardly, guiltily) to repay Charles Milton Porter for what had been done to him, once the programmer reappeared after Tenenbaum’s last trawl. Porter told him the only thing he wanted from Sinclair was to never hear from him again. (Porter’s a better man than him, that’s for damn sure- he’d been expecting to get his teeth knocked out at the very least, at worst thrown back into the ocean to drown like a rat.) The girls, on the other hand, seem to have an inexplicable fondness for him, and while thanks to Tenenbaum they’ve each been returned to their frantic families, they still demand visits- with Eleanor and Delta, yes, but with Sinclair too, much to his confusion. He suspects Eleanor has fed them some nonsense about their underwater adventure that paints him in a falsely heroic light. Still, when cornered by a dozen beaming, dimple-cheeked faces asking him to read them a story or make them sandwiches or push them on the swing (polite as you please, of course, each of them taking a turn with no shoving or fuss), he can’t find it in himself to shatter their illusions.

So, here he is, living an unexpectedly domestic life. Some- his old Rapture cronies among them- would even say he’s gone soft.

Maybe he has.

It would certainly explain the predicament he finds himself in now. The old Sinclair would never have been caught like this, bloody and wheezing in an alleyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sinclair tries to scratch that itch, with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until next week to post this chapter, but time is an illusion anyway so I'm posting it now

So, maybe it’s more of a three-part problem he has. 

The third part of the problem is that he no longer knows the proper etiquette, the right signals, the best place to go to scratch this particular itch of his. In Rapture, he could just fetch himself down to Siren Alley, and while it wasn’t a wise or safe trip to make- there were always those of a more traditional mind, even down there, and plenty of people who’d jump at the chance to tarnish his sterling reputation with a scandal of the personal kind- it was a damn sight safer with Ryan’s clout to back him and a concealed pistol in case that didn’t do the trick. He’d pop by, find the biggest, broadest fella looking to do business (the pickings were, sadly, pretty slim most days, as bruisers in Rapture were more likely to be working the front doors of the Pink Pearl than the rooms inside), have a quick roll in the hay and be on his way. He kept it to a minimum, never saw the same man twice, and was sure to be seen having dinner with a lady or two often enough that no one got suspicious. 

This, though… this thing, whatever it is, that kicks up whenever he passes Delta in the hallway fresh after a shower, when he watches the former Big Daddy stretch happily in the sunlight like he’s feeling it for the first time all over again, when their eyes meet across a room and a gentle, genuine smile lifts the corner of those scarred lips and Sinclair feels as if he’s in that leaking train car all over again, unable to catch his breath… he doesn’t know what to do with any of it. Delta’s not some anonymous heavy, willing to trade his company for a few bills, and this isn’t the usual base lust Sinclair feels. It’s something terrifying and soft, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let it ruin him any more than it already has. If Delta ever finds out… he’s forgiven a lot, that man, and while he likely wouldn’t grow angry or violent over a confession of this sort, Sinclair doesn’t think he could take the awkward, wordless rejection that would follow it. 

So, he’s made something of a risky choice. 

He waited for a clear night (it took some readjusting, the open sky, and rain still makes him jumpy), waited until long after Eleanor and Delta had both gone to their rooms, and then he snuck out like a rebellious teen. It’s a short trip into the downtown area, and it’s no difficulty to find his way into the seedier parts of town. Then comes the hard part. He more or less blunders his way from one club to another, wincing at the blaring music of this new decade and feeling distinctly out of place and overdressed. Times have changed on the surface; where he recalls furtive eye contact and coded insinuations (in the South, anyhow- one time in his youth Augustus managed to pay a visit to grand ol’ Chicago and found a dizzying array of “pansy parlors” and cabarets, enough to give a fresh-faced young man a life’s worth of fond memories), now there are crowded bars of mustached macho men, indistinguishable to his eyes. It’s not until he sees a trio of glittering queens, so tall in their heels that they have to duck through the doorway of their chosen venue, that he relaxes slightly. He hasn’t quite got the nerve to go inside yet, though he’d dearly love a drink, but he figures it’s safe enough to lean against the wall of this particular bar and light up a smoke before he looks for a likely one-night-stand-in. 

To his surprise, he’s barely got his lighter out before a voice to his right asks, “You mind?”

He glances up to see a blond-haired, blue-eyed man in a denim jacket, unlit cigarette loosely dangling between his lips. He nods toward the lighter and flashes a grin, and Sinclair, caught off-guard, fumbles to get a flame going. The man leans into his cupped hands, inhales, and tips back, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sinclair lights his own cigarette. He’s a little torn; on the one hand, this fella’s not exactly what he was looking for: he’s of average height, and while he’s muscular under that jacket, he’s hardly the kind of broad and brawny that comes from wielding a massive drill, and his smooth, clean shaven face lacks a certain character- no surgical scars mar his lips, no burns pit his cheeks. 

“I’m Chip. You new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

On the other hand, beggars can’t be choosers; Sinclair’s aware he’s no hot commodity, and he’s flattered by the attention this man, easily a decade his junior if not more, is paying him. 

“Al,” he says, lying easily as he offers a hand. He suspects “Chip” is a pseudonym as well, a practice he’s well used to. “Just passing through, thought to pay a visit to the local nightlife.”

Chip nods, smiling again. “Where you from?”

“All over,” he replies, instead of going into details about underwater cities that will likely send any suitors packing. “Georgia, mostly. Panama before that.”

“Panama. That’s in Mexico, yeah?” 

Sinclair doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a struggle. Instead he lets himself shrug one shoulder and take another drag. “Close enough.” He’d thought the chance for normal conversation would be a relief, but all he can think now is how much he longs for Delta’s half-written, half-gestured speech. Their chats would seem one-sided to anyone watching or listening, but Sinclair’s learned Delta’s mannerisms and his wordless intonations well enough that he can natter away for hours on end about any topic and know by the tilt of his head and the low rumbling sound of encouragement that the former Big Daddy is listening intently. Oftentimes Delta will chime in with a single signed or fingerspelled word, courtesy of the sign language classes Eleanor is taking and passing on to her two guardians through persistent quizzing. 

Chip is saying something else, and Sinclair refocuses in time to see him point at the nearby alley and raise his brows in clear invitation. Well. If he’s going to do this, he might as well do it. He nods, flicks his cigarette aside and follows. 

The alley, unsurprisingly, is dark and dingy and smells like hot garbage and piss. Not really ideal, but it’s conveniently located and out of view of the street. Chip’s face is just barely illuminated by the glowing end of his cigarette as he approaches, and Sinclair hears rather than sees him undo his zipper. 

The hand on the back of his neck is unexpected, and Sinclair jumps a bit before he can catch himself. Chip seems amused by this, if the stifled chuckle is anything to go by, and he presses down until Sinclair takes the hint and sinks to his knees (wrinkling his nose as he imagines the grime seeping into the knees of his pants). “Come on,” it comes out hissed between Chip’s teeth, still clenched around the smoldering cigarette. A moment later there’s a hot, insistent pressure against Sinclair’s lips, and with a grunt he opens up and, for lack of a better term, dives in. This isn’t exactly what he was hoping for, both in setting and size, but in the dark he can more or less let his imagination run wild and bring up images of Delta looming over him, and he tells himself that will have to be enough. 

The problem now is that Chip won’t shut up. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Take it all, you little bitch. Choke on it. Fuck, fuck, choke on it, bitch, you like that? Yeah you fuckin’ do,” On and on it goes, and far be it for Sinclair to judge a man for running his mouth but this is a bit much for his tastes, and when one is trying to paint themselves an erotic mental picture of a more or less mute man, a constant stream of chatter from his stand-in is about the biggest deterrent there is. After a minute or two of this, he pulls his head free of Chip’s increasingly firm grip and clears his throat. 

“Chip.”

“What? Why’d you stop?” Chip’s voice has taken on a notably irritated tone. Not surprising, all things considered, but Sinclair has to say something.

“Could do without the ungentlemanly language, if it’s all the same to you.”

“The _what_? Are you fucking kidding me?” Now it’s irritation and disbelief, borderline anger. 

Even if he doesn’t know the signals anymore, Sinclair knows a red flag when it flares up. He rocks back on his heels, preparing to stand and make his exit, but- well, he’s rusty, and maybe there were a few flags he’s already missed, because he’s not expecting the hand that lashes out and grabs him by his hair, yanking hard at his scalp and getting a startled shout from him. Before he can twist free of that, a knee gives him a glancing blow across the chin, busting his lip and making him topple backward. He lands hard on his ass, and Chip follows him, snarling.

“You think you call the shots, you fucking queer? Think you can tell me what to do?” The cigarette drops and sizzles out, leaving them in darkness and making the next blow all the more painful when it comes out of nowhere and catches Sinclair in the side, just below the ribs. “You know how lucky you are, me slumming it with somebody like you?” 

Sinclair rolls onto his side, trying to find a wall to scrabble up, trying to slap away the hands that fumble after him and only half-succeeding, getting another vicious yank to his hair and a stomp to one of his shins. He finds the wall, puts his back to it and tries to squirm his way up to standing, but Chip’s hands find his throat in the dark and slam his head against the bricks, stunning him. He kicks out, feels his heel connect with a kneecap and hears Chip curse before his head is slammed again, harder, making light burst behind his eyes. 

Serves him right, he thinks under the blind flight-or-fight terror, dying in a dirty alley after everything else.

There is a distinctly out-of-place noise- somewhere between a humpback whale and a brass orchestra at full blast- that echoes from the entrance to the alleyway, and the part of Sinclair’s oxygen-deprived brain that’s still hardwired for survival in Rapture sets off all manner of alarm bells because that noise means only one thing, and before he can put two and two together something sends Chip flying off of him with the might of a freight train. Chip hits the opposite wall with a sick crunch and falls like a bag of bricks as this new combatant slings him away with practiced, brutal ease. 

Delta lets out another guttural roar, less animalistic without his helmet but just as furious, a force of nature given human form. His right hand curls and clenches like it’s recalling the weight of the drill and his left twitches with the muscle memory of a plasmid, his teeth bared and eyes wild. 

He’s so goddamned beautiful Sinclair could cry, and it occurs to him not for the first time that his early comparisons to a knight in shining armor were right on the money. 

When, after a beat, it becomes apparent that Chip is not getting back up (it’s hard to say from here whether he’s unconscious or dead), let alone posing a further threat, Delta turns toward his wheezing, bleeding heap of a friend. Sinclair’s vision is clearing and the ringing in his ears is fading now that he can catch his breath, but his voice is still a barely-there rasp as he tries to address his rescuer. “Well, Johnny, ain’t this just like old times. You still make a mighty fine savior if I may say so.” He can’t bring himself to meet Delta’s eyes just yet, in the wake of this shameful situation.

Delta crouches down in front of him, reaches one massive hand out and with a surprisingly gentle touch moves Sinclair’s hands away from his bruising neck to get a look. Augustus shivers involuntarily as rough fingertips trace the tender, reddened skin, and Delta lets out a low, creaking groan in response, wincing sympathetically.

“I, uh-” Sinclair swallows hard, then regrets it as his esophagus twinges. “I must look a fright, huh, Chief?”

Delta doesn’t answer, but his hands go strafing downward to press- still so carefully- against Sinclair’s side where he was kicked, feeling for breaks, then back up and around his skull (it’s a good thing Sinclair’s face is covered in blood, because he feels himself go scarlet) to feel the already-swelling, blood-sticky knot there. The muscles in Delta’s jaw bunch as he grimaces angrily, eyes tightening, but his touch remains light.

A moan behind them causes both of them to tense, and Delta rumbles low and menacing in his chest as he twists toward the apparently still alive form of Chip. Sinclair feels a stab of panic, not for his own safety- he’s about the safest he’s ever been now that Delta’s here- but over the idea of Chip waking up, seeing Delta, calling the cops… any court would take one look at the mangled, mute, Frankenstein-patchwork of a man and his clean-cut, blond-haired “victim” and send Delta to the chair without a moment’s thought. They could kill Chip easily (very easily, really, after the butchery that was necessary to survive Rapture), but up here that would be murder, that would mean the law after them, getting out of town (and Eleanor’s just starting to make friends, to feel safe, to have the life she should have gotten from the beginning), hiding and running and hiding for who knows how long all because Sinclair’s a greedy snake who couldn’t control himself, had to have more, like always… 

Delta starts to rise to his feet, and Sinclair, frantic, grabs at his arm. “Johnny. Don’t,” he begs. He leans to one side (wheezing at the pain in his ribs) to get a look and thank god, Chip’s still faced away, insensate, unmoving. 

With another, quieter growl, Delta turns back to face him. He hesitates, then moves his right hand up to his face; the tips of his fingers are painted with Sinclair’s blood, and it smears across his cheekbone as he signs “home”. 

“You took the words outta my mouth, Chief.” Sinclair grips the wall as best he can, uses the rough grout under his palm to heave himself upright with a grunt. “Lead the way.”

Delta is still for a moment, regarding him with an inscrutable expression, then ducks down and scoops Sinclair up with one arm, essentially cradling him to his chest (rather than his back, the way he would carry a Little Sister, for which Sinclair is immensely grateful). Sinclair makes a noise that could generously be called a yelp and instinctively grabs hold of Delta’s shoulder as they take off at a solid jog. They stick to the alleys and unlit streets and thanks to Delta’s heightened perception they manage to avoid any other late-night wanderers. Honestly, Sinclair thinks, they could be passing through a full parade and he’d be unaware, so intently focused is he on _not_ doing something stupid like resting his head against the thick pectoral he’s so close to or looking up into Delta’s striking eyes with their broken blood vessels and warm brown irises. Thankfully he has the pain of his injuries to distract him, and he curses himself once again for the damn risky nonsense he’s now got the both of them involved in. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delta bandages, Sinclair confesses, and things start to heat up.

They reach the house in good time, and Delta elbows the front door open and kicks it shut behind them before gingerly depositing his cargo on the carpeted floor of the living room. Sinclair wobbles on his bad ankle and before he can reach for a chair to balance against there’s a calloused hand under his elbow, supporting him as he picks his way across the room. Delta hovers like a nervous hen even after Sinclair’s settled into an armchair, seemingly torn between the urge to get his writing pad from the kitchen or the first aid kit from the bathroom. It would be bizarre, comical even, to any Rapture citizen, seeing a Big Daddy dither with indecision like this. 

Sinclair’s familiar enough with Delta’s inner workings- having watched over his shoulder, so to speak, as he agonized over decisions both critical and trivial (staying his hand against Stanley, choosing potato chips over a candy bar from the Circus of Values, leaving Gil alive in his tank. Saving the girls was the only choice he never hesitated over)- to know that he gets himself stuck in a loop sometimes. Blessedly, it’s easy enough to get him unstuck with a little prompting.

“Go get your notepad, kid, I’m in no danger of bleedin’ out.” He wipes at his face with the cuff of one sleeve, aiming for casual confidence. 

Delta huffs, either in agreement or exasperation, but he takes the suggestion and heads for the kitchen first, swiping pen and paper before looping around to the bathroom and rifling through the cabinet on his way back. Sinclair almost asks him to grab the mouthwash while he’s at it, to rinse away the dually unpleasant flavors of his own blood and Chip’s cock, but he winces at the thought of bringing up his recent unsavory activities. He’s mortified to imagine how much Delta might have seen. Come to think of it-

“How’d you know where I was?” He asks, looking up as his companion returns to the living room.

Delta freezes where he is, halfway through dragging a stool over to sit on. His expressions are hard to read after all that time in a helmet, but if Sinclair had to hazard a guess he’d say the look on that face is one of discomfort or maybe embarrassment, eyes darting down and away and mottled cheeks coloring ever so slightly. Delta finishes placing the stool in front of the armchair and takes a seat, clearing his throat and plucking the notepad from under his arm to scratch out in his careful block lettering:  _ Followed you _ . 

Fuck. Sinclair closes his eyes, shame flooding him. “What’d you… what’d you see? How much?”

A pause, the scratch of the pen. Sinclair opens his eyes but keeps them pointed at the paper. 

_ Most of it. Didn’t mean to watch, was going to leave when you went into the alley but then I heard you scream _ . There are a few more words scribbled and scratched out, but before he can decipher them the pad is pulled back and the hand with the pen pulls back against its owner’s chest, fist rubbing a circle:  _ Sorry _ .

That’s unexpected enough that Sinclair looks up and meets Delta’s gaze, realizing it’s not disgust or even embarrassment in those soulful eyes but guilt, like he’s more sorry for invading Sinclair’s privacy than anything else. 

Sinclair chokes out a laugh of disbelief and overwhelming, consuming relief. “Sorry for what? Saving my life, again?”

Delta looks pained again, eyebrows furrowing, but instead of commenting he just swaps out his notebook for the first aid kit, balancing the box on his knees as he rummages around for cotton swabs and alcohol. That’s no good, and Sinclair’s a breath away from taking a risk and reaching for one of his hands, but Delta leans in and takes hold of him first, carefully grasping his chin and wiping first at the drying blood under his nose, then down to the split in his lip. Just as in the alley, the touch is achingly gentle, sending goosebumps up his arms, and when he feels the pad of a thumb trail, seemingly without conscious thought, up his chin and across his lower lip, Sinclair can’t help himself. 

“Thank you,” it comes out as barely a whisper, and the words spill out of him, running his mouth as always even as the alcohol stings it. “I mean it. You’re a genuine miracle; I can’t imagine what I would’ve done without you, not just now but- but all this time. You’re a force for good, Delta, and I- I’m- I can’t tell you how sorry I-”

He’s cut off, not by an offended shove or by Delta leaving the room in repulsion, as he was sort of expecting, but by the big man hauling him into an embrace. Sinclair’s words die off as he is pressed cheek-first to the chest he’s so often daydreamed of, and while he’s still processing this development he feels rather than hears that familiar rumble before a rusty, scarcely-used voice sounds above his head.

“Ssssc-” It’s sibilant and slightly strangled, but he hears it so rarely that Sinclair is instantly rapt. “Sssncrr.” His eyes go wide as he recognizes his own name through the filter of Delta’s tongueless speech, and he twists his neck (despite the immediate pain from the motion) to stare up at him. 

They’re so close Sinclair can see each line and whorl of scar tissue that break up the angles of Delta’s face, can make out the difference between the pitting of an Incinerate blast and the jagged white jigsaw of an Electro Bolt. Even months later, the tang of sea salt clings to the air around him, giving Sinclair the strong urge to lick his lips, to catch the taste of it. 

As if reading his mind, Delta’s gaze drops to Sinclair’s mouth, and he swallows, his hold tightening a fraction, and starts again. “Auug- Augssts... you n’ me… goin’ p’acess. R’member?” 

Oh, hell. Sinclair’s never counted himself a romantic, but he’s near swooning, and it’s not from the head wound. “Stars above, Johnny,” he says, and leans up to finally take that risk.

Delta’s lips are asymmetrical, more scar than skin in some places, and they fit against Sinclair’s like they were made to. He moans softly when Sinclair reaches up and wraps both arms around him (barely fitting around those massive shoulders), opens his mouth into the kiss and arches forward reflexively when Sinclair’s tongue slips inside. He slides a palm up the smaller man’s spine, pressing him closer, and he doesn’t have his own tongue anymore but he angles his head to drag his teeth over the fullness of Sinclair’s bottom lip-

-and Sinclair winces, lets out an involuntary little noise as fresh blood wells up from the cut. Delta instantly pulls back, looking mortified, at the same moment Sinclair starts to apologize, and Delta shakes his head and goes for the notepad again, his hand shaking a little as he writes.

_ Let’s finish patching you up and get back to bed; we both need sleep _ .

It’s true, but it’s hardly what Sinclair wants to read and he nods reluctantly, sits still and allows the careful probing at the base of his skull by fingers he’d much rather have gripping, harder, several other areas of his body. Once it’s been determined that he has neither a concussion nor broken ribs, he’s allowed to stand- cautiously, still, his bodyguard hovering over him ready to catch him again- and hobble his way toward the first-floor bedroom. 

He pauses in the doorway, staring at his bed in the darkness and feeling a flood of inexplicable dread at the prospect of sleeping alone, his mind playing out wild, ridiculous scenarios of someone waiting for him in the shadows, outside the window, ready to leap out and strike the moment Delta goes upstairs. It feels silly, after everything else he’s managed to live through, and he’s trying to think of a reasonable excuse to either sleep elsewhere or not at all when Delta coughs to get his attention and sheepishly holds out the note he’s just scrawled:  _ You mind sleeping upstairs?  _ ~~_ So I can keep an eye on you, _ ~~ _ in case  _ ~~_ anything goes wrong or _ ~~ _ you need  _ ~~_ help or  _ ~~ _ anything _ .

Sinclair laughs, shoulders relaxing, utterly smitten. “As always, sport, you’re two steps ahead.” He gratefully takes the offered arm and they slowly make their way up the stairs.

Delta’s room is all cool tones, dark blues and pale grays, furnished simply with a sturdy chair in one corner, a dresser in the opposite corner, and a large bed against the wall. He’s been unsure about decorating, but both Eleanor and Sinclair have promised (almost threatened) to help him find things to make it more homey. 

Augustus steps out of his shoes, undoes his tie and shrugs loose of his suspenders with practiced ease and a weary sigh, draping the tie over the back of the chair along with his shirt. He’s down to his undershirt and pants, and he was planning on leaving it that way before he glances down and remembers the grimy state of said pants- the knees are muddied and torn, and there’s spots of blood dotting their way up the crisp ironed fold. He’d rather not overstay his welcome by staining the linens, so the trousers join the shirt, leaving him in his drawers. He feels a faint prickle at the back of his neck, and he turns to see Delta, half-undressed and staring with burning intensity at Sinclair’s ass. Delta catches himself a second too late and goes so red he nearly glows, and Sinclair, nearly giddy with delight and disbelief at the whole situation, bursts into laughter. 

“Got an eyeful yet, Chief?” He turns the rest of the way around and crosses the room, trying for a saunter instead of a limp and semi-managing it, if the way Delta tracks the movement is any indication. “Easier to give someone the old once-over when you’re hidin’ behind a helmet, huh?”

Delta covers his face with one big hand, pinching the bridge of his nose in embarrassment even as his own shoulders shake with silent laughter. When he looks up again, his eyes are bright and warm with amusement, and then he finishes kicking free of his pants and it’s Sinclair’s turn to pretend not to stare. 

The bedding is pulled back in a loose pile, crisp cotton sheets and a heavy quilt stitched with a Log Cabin pattern (a gift from the family of one of the girls, one of the few Delta was willing to accept and one of the only real personal touches in the room). 

They slide into bed and Delta hands over one of the pillows, pulls the blankets up over them both as they lay down. He’s still and silent, looking contemplative, before raising a hand from the mattress and repeating his earlier gesture, cupping Sinclair’s cheek and tracing his lips with the pad of his thumb, like an indirect kiss. Just as before, it brings a shivery thrill up Sinclair’s spine, and he takes the chance to repay the touch with a quick turn of his head to press a kiss to Delta’s palm. He grins, smug, when that gets a sharp inhale and one of those chest-deep rumbles, and under the sheets he feels Delta’s knees knock against his as the larger man shifts a little closer. 

“Careful, now, you keep makin’ romantic at me like that and I’ll start to get a notion you’re fond of me.” 

Delta snorts, that wry little smile Sinclair covets tugging at his mouth, and spreads the fingers of the same hand, spanning Sinclair’s forehead and encompassing his jawline, before slowly bringing his fingertips back together in a gentle command:  _ Sleep _ .

He may not say much, but he’s awfully persuasive, and Sinclair finds himself obeying without a second thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

The early morning sunlight passes unfiltered through the window of Delta’s room, unlike the curtains and desk piled high with files that block it from Sinclair’s, and he grumbles in protest when a golden beam peeks over the horizon and directly into his closed eyelids. There’s a soft, raspy chuckle next to him and then the bed shifts as Delta rises from it. The light is blocked a moment later, and Sinclair blearily opens one eye a crack to see him silhouetted against the sunrise as he pulls the curtains shut before turning back toward the bed. Delta raises a brow, silently teasing,  _ Better now? _ in the tilt of his head as he steps closer and Sinclair offers his most winning smile and a, “Much obliged, Chief.” His voice comes out a bullfrog-croak instead of his usual smooth drawl, courtesy of his very sore throat, but if the sudden darkening of Delta’s eyes is anything to go by, the rasp isn’t any kind of deterrent. 

He is by no means a morning person, so Sinclair is planning to stay right where he is (especially if he can coax Delta back under the blankets with him), but there’s a commotion downstairs followed by hurried footsteps and then an instant later the bedroom door bursts open. 

“Father! There’s blood in the living room and the front door was unlocked and Sinclair’s not in his room, what’s-” Eleanor’s urgent voice falters and trails off as she takes in the scene: Sinclair’s lax pose and rumpled hair as he sits nestled in the bed, Delta standing over him, both of them in their underclothes, their expressions frozen guiltily. Her gaze flicks back and forth between the two of them, her mouth opening and closing, and then she narrows her eyes, settles for nodding once before slipping back into the hall and closing the door behind her.

Sinclair and Delta slowly turn to face each other, wearing identical looks of uncertainty. 

_ I’ll talk to her _ , Delta signs. He quickly throws on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants and steps out of the room, presumably going downstairs.

Sinclair takes his time pulling on last night’s clothing, deciding after a sniff to leave the sweaty, bloodstained shirt for now. He hisses when he bends over to retrieve his shoes and his ribs remind him of the abuse they suffered. Hesitantly, he lifts his undershirt and sighs when he sees the vivid purple map of bruises across his torso. He can only imagine the state of his face and throat at the moment. 

It’s only a short while before Delta comes more or less sidling back into the room, rubbing the back of his head and looking only slightly less concerned than before. He jots down a few sentences and offers them to Sinclair:  _ She wanted to know about the blood. I told her the short version of what happened last night, said you were attacked while you were out at a bar. She’s worried the man will go to the police _ .

“Bless that girl’s good sense. I’m fearful of the same thing.” He doesn’t mention- and is adamantly trying not to think about- the other fear that is screaming at the back of his mind. Namely, if Eleanor was shocked or appalled by what she just saw (and he couldn’t really blame her if she was, any teenager would be on seeing their parent in a compromised position. Thank Heaven they weren’t actually doing anything when she walked in), he is immediately on thin ice. He knows he’s just barely managed to maintain some semblance of morality in her eyes, and his imagination is providing all the terrible ways she might see him now- the Corruptor, the Deviant, dragging her noble father down into the foul mire of depravity. 

Another note, delivered with a slight frown.  _ She wants to talk to you _ . 

Damn. His heart sinks as Delta keeps his eyes resolutely fixed on a spot just past Sinclair, rather than meeting his gaze. He nods, and the thought occurs to him that he really should have pushed through the pain last night when the offer was there, because it’s certainly gone now. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go ahead and get myself cleaned up first; don’t wanna shock the poor girl any further with the state I’m in.”

He showers quickly, gritting his teeth as he scrubs at the crusted blood in his hair, the water running pink down his back, and then he dresses and heads downstairs.

Eleanor is sitting in the bay window next to the kitchen, leafing through a college brochure, and she sets it aside when he approaches and studies him in that unnerving manner she has. “You’re limping,” she notes. 

“Nothin’ for you to worry about, sugar,” he says with what he hopes is a reassuring tone as he grabs a chair from the breakfast nook and sits himself down facing her. “Got myself into a bit of a mess last night, but lucky for me your Daddy pulled me out of it.”

“He said a man tried to murder you.”

“Well-” He can’t really contradict that, but his instinct is to at least downplay it. He doesn’t even get the chance, as she fixes him with a flat stare to the clearly defined handprints around his neck. “It did seem to be leadin’ that way, yes,” he concedes. 

“Why? Who was he? Father says he wasn’t someone from Rapture or anything like that, but if that’s true why was he trying to kill you?” The floodgate of questions opens up and she leans forward, confusion and worry in her voice. “If that man is still alive, will he keep coming after you? Or Father? Will we have to move somewhere else?”

“Darlin’, it’s alright,” he soothes, as well as he can for someone wondering several of those same questions himself. “Now, we don’t know much about who he was, but he certainly wasn’t from Rapture. His disagreement with me was… more of a personal problem.”

“Over what?” She asks indignantly, and dammit, even after the disgrace he’s made of himself she’s ready to defend his dubious honor, same as Delta was. It still amazes him, all these months later, that two such thoroughly good people came out of Rapture alive.

He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. He’s backed himself right into this topic, for all his efforts trying to avoid it. “Men like me, we… that is to say, people who are- the way I am… it’s not an easy way to be, even nowadays, and some folks take offense of the violent sort.” He’s trying his best to summarize it without going into detail. He knows she’s witnessed plenty of horrors in her short life, but he doesn’t want to add to them with descriptions of the things he’s seen done to men like him- the firing squads in Panama, the lynchings in Georgia, the ‘disappearances’ in Rapture. “I made a misjudgement last night. Thanks to your Daddy, that misjudgement didn’t cost me my life.” He glances at her to gauge her reaction, but she’s just looking steadily back at him. He coughs and figures he may as well address it. “Now, as for what you saw this morning-”

“Sinclair,” she says, calm and proper as can be. “You know, of course, that my Mother taught me to always think in terms of ethics and utilitarian morals, and to consider the common good above all else. Through this logic, naturally, love between two individuals can only be a detriment to the whole. The ideal Utopian must love all equally, even if it is by its very nature perceivable as loving none. Romantic love is a selfish act, and familial love is a trick of genetics.” 

Sinclair winced the moment Lamb’s name came up, and he’s all but shrunk back into his chair by the time she finishes her speech. They don’t tend to talk about Sofia since leaving the woman alive and alone on the beach, though he imagines Delta and Eleanor have had their conversations regarding the doctor, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Tenenbaum is keeping tabs on her. For his part, thinking about Lamb makes his skin crawl and his spine itch. Her talk of morality used to roll in one ear and out the other for him after plenty of practice ignoring preachers down in Georgia, but hearing it now tends to make him squirm like a worm on a hook. 

Eleanor’s composure cracks a little as she regards him, and she lets a wry grin steal across her features, so much like Delta’s self-deprecating smile. Like father, like daughter, blood relations or not. “It drove her mad, then, when I defied her reasoning and grew fond of my friend Amir, or told Aunt Grace that I liked her better than Mother, or loved Father even after the mental conditioning was removed.” She cocks her head, considering him, and he feels like one of those damn butterflies pinned to a board under her stare. “Do you and Father love each other?”

It’s a disarmingly simple, even naive question after all that philosophical talk, and he stumbles over his reply even though, deep down, he knows his answer. “Well, now, I- I don’t like to put words in your Daddy’s mouth or m-make, uh, assumptions, but for my part-”

Blessedly, she interrupts him. “And you’re afraid that I… won’t understand? Or that I’ll be upset?” He doesn’t answer, looks down, choosing his words, but once again she forestalls the need. “No… you’re afraid I won’t think you’re good enough for him.” 

All the air is knocked out of him in a single breath, like a punch in the gut, and Sinclair feels his eyes prickle and quickly covers his mouth to keep from blurting out that yes, of course he’s afraid she’ll think that, but he’s even more afraid that it’s true- how could it not be? He inhales, trying to regain his composure. “You and your Daddy- and the rest of the girls, too- you all like to see the good in people, and that’s commendable, it is, but some people are… we haven’t got so much good in us as you’d like to imagine. There are things I’ve done, cruel, cowardly things that I wish I hadn’t, but-”

“If Father has forgiven you for what was done to him, I can too,” she says, stubbornly as ever. “We both saw Persephone, Sinclair, and I remember the stories Mother and Aunt Grace told me about you.” She leans forward and takes his hand in hers, her expression earnest as she continues, “But I saw you when Father was taken away. I saw what you did, and what happened to you after they found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Eleanor has a flashback.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor recalls Persephone...

_Rapture, some months ago…_

_She can’t control the Little Sisters at the moment, still weakened from her Mother’s last-ditch attempt to sever her bond with her Father, but she can send her consciousness out among the girls while she sleeps, enough to whisper and watch through them while she waits for the pieces of the Big Sister suit._

_She’s seeing through the eyes of a Little Sister just outside her Quarantine chamber, watching her own body behind the glass before pattering away down the hall, following the scent of ADAM. The golden, illusory dream of an idealized Rapture is briefly interrupted by a noise over her shoulder, and the girl turns to see a strange man come stumbling into the entrance room, hugging the wall._

_He’s dark-haired and olive-skinned, and he looks nervous, his eyes large and darting around. He’s dressed differently from the people she usually sees, and he’s struggling to carry an armful of toys- Eleanor focuses hard, seeing through the haze and recognizing a Tommy gun in one hand, an EVE hypo in the other and a First Aid kit tucked under his arm. He smells like fear and worry, rather than ADAM, so the Sister is naturally disinclined to focus on him, but Eleanor pushes gently, asking her to follow him. She recognizes him from the glimpses through her Father’s eyes, impressions of a drawling voice and an uneasy alliance-turned-trust, and she feels hopeful on seeing him._

_He jumps in alarm when he catches sight of her, but breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes she’s not accompanied by a Big Daddy. For a moment he looks like he might talk to her, maybe ask her something, but he shakes his head and rounds a corner with grim determination in his movements. He’s clearly trying to be sneaky, but he’s also clearly terrified of every shadow and sound. A fish swims past a window and the motion spooks him, which the Little Sister giggles at. She’s more willing to follow him now, as he’s entertaining, but Eleanor worries they might draw attention with the noise._

_A camera alerts to his presence, and the man swears up a storm, dropping the hypo and kit, and fires a strafing line of shots at it until it sputters and dies. He wipes at his forehead and scoops the items back up, pausing when he realizes she’s still there. “Pretend you didn’t hear that,” he tells her, then continues on past the sparking camera. He takes a left, then a right, poking his head into empty rooms and looking increasingly upset, muttering to himself, “C’mon, kid, where’ve they got you?”_

_Experimentally, Eleanor tries to speak through the girl, to tell him where her Father is and how to help him, but it’s too much effort and her vision blurs and fades to white as she loses control._

_By the time she manages to reforge the connection to the Little Sister and find him again, he’s crouched outside the Exam Rooms and an alarm is blaring, her Mother’s voice ordering the Family to hunt him down. This is how Eleanor learns that his name is Sinclair, and she watches from a vent as he sets the gun aside and pulls a lockpick from his belt, cursing under his breath as he tries to unlock the door to Delta’s cell._

_There’s a roar from down the hall, and she cries out in warning but it’s too late; even as he goes scrabbling for his gun a hulking brute of a splicer comes barreling down on him, snarling, “Gotcha, you nancy little cunt!”_

_The man called Sinclair struggles, firing a burst of bullets, but the commotion has drawn other splicers now and they haul him away from the door, cackling wildly. He screams when the brute breaks his arm to make him drop the gun, and Eleanor loses sight of him as the Little Sister gasps and drops back down the vent to cover her eyes in fright. She hears one of the splicers admonishing him. “Now you hold still, Sinclair, ‘cause Doctor Lamb’s got big plans for you!” Then the high-pitched whirr of a power tool and another scream._

* * *

Sinclair sits back, stunned and shaken. “Hell,” he manages after a moment. “I didn’t think anyone saw that. Not exactly my finest moment. Forgot all about that Little Sister followin’ me, certainly didn’t realize she was you.”

“I know,” Eleanor says simply. “You say it wasn’t your finest moment, but it showed me that you were willing to put yourself in danger for Father. For both of us. It showed me that you are braver than you think, Sinclair, and that you wanted to redeem your mistakes. And then when we found you after Mother had changed you, you were willing to sacrifice yourself again rather than harm anyone.”

He snorts, trying for laughter, but only raises a watery sort of smile as the memory of that experience continues to play itself out in his head, culminated in that sick moment of looking through the double glass of helmet and window to see his mirror image in Delta. Begging for death at that point was… well, it was the only sensible thing to do. “Some might’ve called that the most cowardly of all, but I take your point.”

“Some might.” She raises her chin defiantly. “But they would be wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning continues.

Delta comes down a few minutes later and sets about making breakfast, watching them both with a concern that seems to lessen when they move to the table together. He starts fiddling with the coffeemaker and Sinclair quickly intervenes, knowing that as excellent a cook as Delta has turned out to be, the man cannot brew decent coffee to save his life. 

Halfway through setting the table, a thought occurs to Sinclair and he makes a swift detour to the front door to grab the morning’s paper from the porch. News breaks quickly, especially these days, and if they’ve made the headlines with their midnight brawl they need to make tracks sooner rather than later. He makes his way back to the table where Eleanor and Delta are already seated, coffee brewed and breakfast plated.

Holding his breath as his stomach knots up in trepidation, Sinclair opens the newspaper, realizes he’s left his glasses on his desk and squints to focus. Instead of the lurid ‘Man Attacked by Monster, Authorities Called In’ headline he’s been dreading, the front page is dominated by an article about some famous musical group disbanding, a side column about a space launch, and something about an upcoming town council meeting. Hardly daring to hope, he flips through page after page, just to be sure. On page 7, a familiar face catches his eye and he scans it urgently before finally letting out that held breath in a sigh of relief. 

They’re both staring at him from across the table, so he slings the paper across to Eleanor and Delta. The girl catches it and furrows her brow slightly as she reads. “‘Son of Wealthy Airline Owner Paralyzed in Hit-and-Run: Carlton Lynch Jr., heir to the Apollo Airways fortune, was struck by an automobile while out for a walk in the Downtown area early this morning. Lynch Jr., son of the well-known magnate Carlton Lynch Sr., is in stable condition and expected to survive, although police say there is little hope for the investigation as Lynch Jr. has no memory of the incident.’ This is the man who attacked you?” She looks up at Sinclair gravely. “It says he’s been paralyzed from the waist down-”

_ Good _ , signs Delta firmly. 

“-but what if he regains his memory? Won’t the police come after Father?” 

“Not a chance,” Sinclair replies easily, pulling his cigarette case from his pocket, an automatic move- he’d celebrate little ‘business’ victories with a coffin nail from the time he could light a match. He opens it, catches the disapproving look they both give him, closes it and instead picks up his coffee mug. “He can’t be involved in the kind of scandal that would come out if he did recall it. The place where we actually had our run-in, well, it’s not a place the son of a rich man can admit to being without all manner of hell being raised.” He should know; Sinclair Solutions both covered up and created similar scandals for a long while. “It’ll be lighter on their pocketbooks to make this disappear quick and quiet.” 

Eleanor frowns slightly and tilts her head, as she does when she’s turning a thought over in that genius brain of hers, assessing the logic of it. “That makes sense. And I suppose you’d have an understanding of these things,” she acknowledges, the frown lifting.

“Guilty as charged,” he replies, toasting her with his mug. He makes eye contact with Delta, who nods, looking relieved. They hold each other’s gaze just a moment longer than is strictly necessary, and Sinclair feels a surge of renewed hope when Delta gives him one of those shy smiles that crinkle the corners of his eyes and make a dimple appear in one cheek. Maybe he hasn’t lost that chance after all.

Not long after breakfast is finished and the dishes cleared away, Eleanor pops out for a sisterly playdate in the park with the girls, their families and Tenenbaum. Delta only occasionally accompanies her for these outings, and today he elects to stay behind, though he lingers in the living room. Sinclair tends to avoid the gatherings himself; more than half of the Little Sisters have taken to calling him “Papa Sinclair”, which makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

He turns from the window, pulling the curtain shut behind him, and slumps into an armchair with a long exhale. “Well,” he says, “That was a damn stressful morning.”

Seemingly in agreement, Delta follows suit and lowers himself into the chair opposite with a sigh of his own. The scene is reminiscent enough of the night before that a frisson of an idea perks Sinclair up. He arches a brow, sliding lower in his seat until he can reach across with one foot, grazing his toes up Delta’s calf to the inside of his thigh in a blatant move. “Don’t suppose you’d care to pick up where we left off?”

Delta looks up quickly, his expression open and slightly awed. “You-” He clears his throat, switches to signing.  _ You still want to? _

“Did I give an impression otherwise?”

_ Could change your mind _ , He shrugs and gestures at his face, a rueful twist to his lips.  _ Now that the light’s better. _ He’s trying to make light of it, but Sinclair recognizes the vulnerability behind the joke, and he won’t stand for it.

He withdraws his foot, pushes himself up from his chair and approaches Delta as the man watches him with semi-apprehension. He leans down (something of a novelty, him having the height advantage for once) and presses his lips to Delta’s, feeling a thrill when Delta kisses back with a passion bordering on desperation and grabs at his waist with both hands. When Sinclair finally pulls back, he’s treated to the vision of Delta flushed and panting, looking like a work of art.

“Convinced?” He asks, breathing hard himself. Delta nods, slowly.

_ Thought maybe you had _ \- he makes a gesture Sinclair doesn’t recognize, and he spells it out-  _ r-e-g-r-e-t-s _ . 

“The only regret I’ve got is getting myself too roughed up to have my wicked way with you right this very moment.” He winks cheekily, slightly twinging the bruises that mottle the right side of his face.

Delta gives him a gentle squeeze, fingertips very briefly straying down to brush the top of Sinclair’s ass before pulling back to sign,  _ I can wait. _ Even as he signs it, his gaze drifts back to Sinclair’s mouth, and Augustus laughs and leans back in for another kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome- looks like there will be one more chapter and then done!


	7. Chapter 7

It only takes about two weeks for Sinclair’s more major injuries to fade to minor ones, but because they are two weeks of feeling Delta’s eyes on him, of knowing Delta wants him and being unable to do a  _ damn thing about it _ , the time passes slower than molasses in a blizzard.

Confident at least for now that they’re not about to be run out of town, Eleanor approaches Sinclair with a request- growing up in Rapture, she says, she made a list of the things she wanted to do once she got topside, things she heard about from the few friends she had and glimpsed through flashes of her Father’s memories. She’s kept the list to herself, afraid it would make Delta feel needlessly guilty, and when she shyly shows it to Sinclair his heart breaks a little for the poor girl. Some items are already crossed off; things like “Feel the sunshine on my face” and “Walk through a real forest”, but there are a few more complicated things such as “Ride a horse” and “Make friends”. He figures the best way to kill two birds with one stone is to sign her up for horseback lessons with a few other girls her age, and the overjoyed hug he receives when he shows her the pamphlet with pictures of the ranch and its horses makes it worth every penny.

It takes a little reassurance from both of them before Delta is at ease about her going; Eleanor is quick to remind him that if she could handle deadly combat as a Big Sister she can handle beginner riding lessons, and Sinclair offers up the fact that he used to ride from the time he could walk (not mentioning that it was on his father’s swaybacked old workhorse that couldn’t have managed anything faster than a walk if its life depended on it). Between the two of them they convince him, and before long Eleanor is spending one day a week at her lessons.

It’s one of these afternoons that Sinclair is seated at his desk, tapping away at his typewriter with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and a half-drunk mug of coffee at his elbow.

A knock makes him turn to see Delta’s frame filling the doorway, his sleeves rolled up after washing the dishes and his expression unsure. 

“C’mon in, Chief.” Sinclair swivels his chair all the way around to face him and takes his cheaters off, setting them atop the pile of files next to his elbow. “I’m just finishing off a correspondence with our man Jack about a business venture.” He waves vaguely at the heap of patents he smuggled out or received from Tenenbaum on the promise not to misuse them, and Delta nods in understanding as he picks his way through the clutter. “Apologies for the cramped quarters in here; I’m afraid the Deluxe it ain’t.”

Delta sits on the bed, which slopes inward under his weight but otherwise holds up. He’s got his notepad tucked under one arm, and he quickly scribbles a reply and holds it out:  _ The Deluxe was a deathtrap & you know it. At least this room doesn’t leak _ .

“Why, sir, how dare you. It was a maim-trap at worst. And I’ll have you know those leaks were all man-made, nothing to do with the quality of the building,” he says with utmost dignity, pleased when it gets him a dry chuckle in response. He stands, stretching to pop his back, and takes a step toward the bed himself, wondering if he could get away with simply planting himself in Delta’s lap. He can’t take his eyes off those bared forearms and thick, casually splayed thighs, and he distracts himself by asking, “Something on your mind, big fella?”

Delta seems to be gathering his own thoughts; he glances at his notebook, sets it aside and starts to sign something several times, raising his hands and lowering them before he can form a word. Finally he clears his throat and looks up, and the only word to describe his gaze is ‘smoldering’. “You.” The single syllable in that deep, gravelly tone is like molten heat down Sinclair’s spine, settling under his skin and making his hair stand on end. Delta switches to signing.  _ I think about you _ , he gestures.  _ All the time, since Rapture _ . The last word spelled out, and he goes pink as he makes his admission, in contrast to the growl of his voice.

“Oh yeah?” Sinclair grins rakishly, flattered and curious, and sidles close enough to stand between those thighs. “And what, pray tell, do you think about in particular?”

Delta doesn’t answer right away, looking down and drumming his fingers hesitantly, bashful now that he’s started this confession. It’s charming, but Sinclair is greedy for more, so he catches hold of one hand and tangles their fingers together, ducks his head and kisses the knuckle of Delta’s thumb, soft and suckling. 

“C’mon, now. You know I’m a vain man, humor me.”

He moves inward, biting gently at the wrist, and is deeply satisfied with the shaky breath he achieves. Delta draws his hands back to sign,  _ Your voice. Got so used to hearing you on the radio. Your mouth _ . He breaks from gesturing to kiss Sinclair, like he can’t resist, hungry and urgent, and when he pulls away he keeps one finger hooked around the strap of a suspender, keeping him close. His free hand travels around and down, smoothing the fabric of Sinclair’s shirt against the small of his back before coming to rest with a squeeze to his generous backside, adding it to the list without needing words. Sinclair snickers.

“My voice, huh? I’d say you’re about the only man alive who doesn’t find my jabber off-puttin’. But if that’s the case, how about I elaborate on a few of the things I think about, myself.” He grins as he watches Delta’s eyes widen, the pupils blown huge. “I think about your hands most. Same way you got used to hearin’ me talk, I got used to watching through that camera in your helmet. Now, I like a man who works with his hands, and lemme tell you, seeing you fight your way through a mess of splicers…” He whistles. “Well, it’s a good thing I was alone on that train car.”

Delta swallows hard at the implication, his hand on Sinclair’s ass flexing and fondling almost compulsively with every word, and Augustus groans appreciatively, letting his head roll back, eyes half-lidded. His exposed throat is immediately set upon with a series of savage love-bites, Delta breathing harsh and heavy in between each one as he pulls Sinclair in closer until they can grind against one another. It’s not enough, after so much waiting and longing; suddenly their movements are nearly frantic as they separate just enough for Sinclair to yank off his suspenders and pants while Delta scoots back on the bed to make room for him, and then they’re on each other again. They kiss clumsily, bumping chins and noses as they adjust on the bed, and Sinclair goes for the zipper of Delta’s pants at the same moment Delta slides both palms up his legs and under his loose-hanging shirt. 

“Of course, I also think about-” Sinclair gasps and arches into the touch to his chest, the calloused fingertips trailing through the hair and circling his nipples exploratively. “-god, Delta, I think about so many things, I want everything you’ll-” He shivers deliciously as the explorative touch turns to kneading, his mouth hanging slack, and Delta takes advantage of the opportunity to bite his lower lip and slide into a filthy kiss, rumbling into the contact. Sinclair finally gets a hand inside Delta’s pants and breaks the kiss to moan, “Good  _ lord _ , Chief, you’re gonna split me in half.”

The former Big Daddy (and certainly, in his case, the title was appropriately given) has the good grace to look slightly abashed, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the twitch his cock gives in Sinclair’s hand at his words. Delta wets his mangled lips, opens his mouth rather than pull his hands away from Sinclair’s chest. “We… ‘on’t have to.”

“Oh, no,” Sinclair says plainly, stretching backward and fumbling with his non-occupied hand through the filing cabinet closest to the bed, trying to find the lubricant without having to give up any contact. “We’re gonna. Just give me… a moment…”

“‘On’t wanna- hur’ you.”

Sinclair sits back down atop those thick thighs, his eyes soft and warm, and he nuzzles his nose into the spot between Delta’s jaw and ear. “I’ll tell you, I haven’t got a clue what I did to deserve a man like you, but I thank my lucky stars for it. I’ll be just fine, so long as we go slow. Gonna have to work my way up to take you, Big Boy.”

Panting, Delta plucks at the buttons of Sinclair’s shirt, as delicately as he can manage, and halfway through he loses patience and rips it the rest of the way before eagerly putting his mouth to the presented skin. He kisses and bites and sucks at everything in his reach, and his palms find their way lower to grope at the softness of Sinclair’s waist. Sinclair digs the fingers of one hand into Delta’s scalp, encouraging the attention for a moment before he reluctantly pulls himself away, remembering the item in his other hand.

“I’ll make a start with this,” he waves the jar of Vaseline. “And you get those clothes off. Feels a mite unbalanced, me bein’ the only one in my all-together.” 

Delta gives a little bubble of laughter and obeys, shifting half-off the bed before shrugging out of his shirt and shimmying his pants off, letting them all pile onto the floor. He’s built like a heavyweight prizefighter, brawny and scar-striped and Sinclair finally allows himself to ogle to his heart’s content. When he eventually tears his eyes away, he’s quick to pop open the jar and strip off his shorts, hovering on his knees to reach back and work a finger into himself. He’s admittedly rushing the process, despite his own words about taking it slow, but he can’t help it- especially when Delta drops his own underwear and he gets a good look at the beast he plans on getting absolutely railed by. It’s not fully hard yet, but it’s already massive, and at the sight his own cock throbs against his belly and he bites his lip as he presses another two fingers in alongside the first. He gasps at the additional pressure, and Delta climbs back onto the mattress with a concerned hum, crawling close on hands and knees. He kisses Sinclair’s shoulder, reaches a hand between his legs and takes hold of his wrist, slowing the pace and gentling the movement of his fingers. Sinclair moans again, leaning back against Delta’s chest and letting him take control. He shudders in anticipation when he feels one of Delta’s fingers slide between his own, calloused but slick as it glides into him.

When another thick fingertip begins to stretch him wide, Sinclair arches and throws his free arm back to grip at whatever part of Delta he can reach. “More,” he pants, heels digging into the bunched-up sheets. “I can take it, gimme more.” His own fingers have all but stopped moving, distracted as he is, and he feels the rumble of Delta’s fond chuckle roll down his spine before his hand is carefully tugged away. Delta replaces it with a third finger, moving slowly but getting deeper now that he has better access, and when he twists his wrist it sends lightning bolts through Sinclair, making him jerk and bite back a shout. This seems to please Delta immensely, and he settles his free hand on Sinclair’s belly, buries his face in Sinclair’s thick hair and dedicates his focus to fingering him into incoherence.

It’s a rare moment Augustus Sinclair is rendered speechless, but every time he opens his mouth to goad Delta into moving on to the next part, he just curls his fingers and makes Sinclair’s eyes roll back and all the words fly out of him as garbled nonsense. Unable to get a full sentence out, he changes tactics to the more physical side of persuasion. He twists his upper body to get a better angle as he reaches his still-slick hand back and gets ahold of Delta’s cock, feeling it pulse hot and hard. His touch is rewarded with that familiar deep-sea growl, and then he gasps as he’s manhandled fully onto his back, the fingers slipping free. The mattress squeaks as Delta tries to maneuver them both into a comfortable position, and Sinclair, briefly able to think clearly, waves a hand and sits up.

“Here, Chief, you have a seat against the headboard. This’ll go easier if we’re not strugglin’ for space.” 

With a grunt of agreement, Delta obeys, scooting backward on the bed. His legs are spread and there’s just enough room for Sinclair to crawl forward, sling one of his own legs over Delta’s hip and straddle him. His cock is pressed snugly between their bellies, and he takes a moment to grind and revel in the sensation before reaching down and back to get a better angle.

Most of the men he bedded back in Rapture liked to have him face-down on whatever surface was handy- he recalls one of them joking that it’s his best angle, since he can’t talk as much that way- but since Delta seems to actually enjoy his voice (and, unbelievably, his company) he hopes this will work. He’s also hoping, even more fervently, that this won’t be a one-and-done the way all his Rapture dalliances were. 

He gets situated and starts to lower himself, feels the blunt pressure rubbing up against him, and then he’s halted by a firm grip on his waist. Delta holds him still with one hand, the other reaching for something among the sheets, a faint wet noise, and then Delta’s fingers glide into him one more time to add a layer of slick before he’s allowed to move. Sinclair could almost laugh at the sweetness and care behind the gesture, but he’s got other things to focus on. He feels the head of Delta’s cock nudge into him, held steady by his free hand, and he pushes back, instantly greedy for more. Delta breaches him, pauses for an interminable second as they both let out a sharp breath before sliding deeper with a cautious thrust. Sinclair can only moan, his jaw slack and eyes unfocused as he’s filled- and filled, and filled, til he thinks he can damn near feel it in his chest. By the time their hips meet, he’s trailed off to a breathless whimper, shivering all over when one big hand rubs soothingly between his shoulder blades. 

Sinclair takes a shallow breath that hitches when he moves slightly and feels the pressure inside him shift exquisitely, and after a few attempts he gets enough oxygen to his brain to offer a lascivious grin and slur, “Don’t hold back on me now, sport.”

That’s apparently all Delta needs to hear; after one or two gentle, easing rolls, he begins to buck his hips up, hard and fast and then harder, harder. The hand on Sinclair’s back curves up around the back of his neck, gripping and pulling him down to meet each thrust with feverish urgency. That deep bass rumble of a voice is half-snarling, half-groaning, faltering into something softer as he turns his head to kiss Augustus’ open mouth. The staccato of their hips meeting builds until there’s no room between them to make a sound; Delta grinding deep and staying there as he sucks kiss after kiss from Sinclair, each of them as greedy as the other for more. 

Delta’s free hand drags a reddening trail with his blunt nails through Sinclair’s chest hair and downward, playing along the padding over his ribs, across his hips. The touch makes him writhe desperately, trying to get it where he wants it, where his cock is pressed between them- all that heated skin rubbing and slipping against him and it’s not  _ quite  _ enough, if Delta would just wrap those fingers around him- but the man is a damn tease, even buried balls-deep inside him, and the touch circles the head of his cock once, getting a jerk and an eager spurt of fluid before passing back up to his chest again to toy with his nipples. Sinclair could just about beg, if he could get anything other than gasping, whining breaths out over the squealing of bedsprings and the throat-scraping, wall-shaking growls Delta is building back up to. 

There’s not much Sinclair can do from this angle- spread open and filled to bursting, held and handled with tender, all-consuming attention- but he makes best efforts, sliding his palms over the sweat-gleaming constellation of scars that decorate Delta’s chest and shoulders. He cups Delta’s face and kisses him again, slow and lingering, feels him shudder like a mountainside before an avalanche and realizes he’s right on the verge of coming and trying to hold himself back. No wonder, he supposes- if it’s been a long wait for Sinclair, he can only imagine how long it’s been for Delta! 

Sinclair breaks the kiss with a smile, their lips still just touching as their eyes lock from inches away. That terrifyingly soft glowy feeling is back in his chest, all-consuming and open like a chasm below him, and Augustus throws himself into it without a thought. 

Delta’s rasping growls hitch and shatter into a guttural roar, his hands clutching at every part of Sinclair as he drives into him in a last urgent frenzy. Sinclair gasps at the heat that fills him, rocking down onto the pressure as best he can, and then Delta’s palm is on him at last and he comes so hard his vision blurs out and his ears ring. 

As he’s blinking the room back into focus he feels Delta gently prop him up with one hand, making enough space between them to wipe at the almost embarrassingly large mess spattered across their bellies. Sinclair squirms as Delta pulls out of him, leaving him tender and, from the feel of it, all but gaping open. The much-abused bed groans as they settle back into it, Delta’s feet hanging over the end and the two of them half-tangled in each other, trying to catch their breath. 

After a long moment Delta shifts, struggles briefly to free his hands, accidentally bangs his elbow on the nearby wall, winces, and gestures,  _ Next time, we use my bed _ .

“No arguments here,” Sinclair says once his brain regains enough blood flow to translate the motions. It’s another moment before he’s also able to process their implications, and he perks up his head, blinking. “Next time?”

_ Actually, now that I think about it _ , he continues to sign, forging onward and looking straight ahead, projecting casual even as the flush rises from his chest to his cheeks again.  _ It would probably be better if you just started sleeping up there _ .

Sinclair stares, feeling that soft warm glow suffuse his entire being, but somehow it’s not so terrifying this time. “It  _ is  _ a bigger bed…” He says thoughtfully as a grin steals across his face.

Delta glances at him, returns the smile.  _ And if you’re already going to sleep there you might as well keep some clothes in the closet, for convenience _ …

“Not to mention it’d be nice to fully turn this room into an office.”

_ You’d have more room for all your files without the bed in here _ , Delta agrees before wrapping both arms around Sinclair’s lower back and pulling him closer so they lie chest-to-chest.

“Mmmh.” Sinclair lets his eyes flutter lazily shut as he burrows his face into the crook of Delta’s shoulder, already half-dozing. “Goin’ places, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOF. THAT TOOK A WHILE. My apologies. This was fun to write, I'm glad I finally got it done and that you guys enjoyed it! Thanks for all the lovely comments and reviews!


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